death brings different socks

bilirubin makes up for your lack of asian genes
as the sunlight writes your name in shadows
now made more even as breathing slows
or as thinking slows.
who knows?

closets full of unworn clothes
compete for space as we cram ourselves
between drawers of tube socks and the leaky loo
twelve years a bachelor marked out in chilli cans and condensed soup
finally you've flown the coup
and women flock to clean up after you.

your youngest son builds the box
(which we wipe down with your socks)
and your oldest waits for you to look with recognition
but by your own admission
you lived for years waiting to be seen
as you hid on Sand road behind the cedar hedge
with the radio always on in case the world ended without you

they say that death comes with a rattle
but it sounded more like socks stuffed in a box
and the muffled sense of loss
that comes when you give away something you never really had

though we plan to bury you
to the sound of taps under a triangular flag
we bury the memories of all we missed
the dad that came and left but liked to hover
like an aloof eagle in the sky
occasionally swooping before he said goodbye.